


i won't stop dying (won't stop lying)

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bad Parents Sharon Denbrough & Zack Denbrough, Body Image, Eating Disorders, F/M, Guilt, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, One-Sided Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Other, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:22:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22359442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: there's really no plot to this.bill and stan smoke together and i use bill to vent. no resolution, no real ending. i like to think bill would relate to this even more because it's a shitty ending ;)
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16
Collections: Anonymous





	i won't stop dying (won't stop lying)

**Author's Note:**

> apologies in advance for this. it's a whole lot of self-projecting and venting through a character. what can i say? i relate to bill and clung to that. not happy at all. if you enjoy this, feel free to let me know.  
> (title is from 'cemetery drive' by my chemical romance)

"I just wuh-want someone to love me," Bill murmurs. His voice is nothing more than a whisper, hushed and almost private to himself even if Stan is sat right there next to him.

His blue eyes remain fixated on the light reflecting off of the metal held in his unsteady hand. He thumbs over the rounded edge of the lighter cap and and then flicks it open to watch the orange flame dance about before he shuts it and clenches his fist around it.

He doesn't turn to face Stan, still bent forward with his head resting across his forearm, laid across the tops of both knobby knees. Being folded up like this is a comfort all his own, something that looks so casual to an outside view. Stan probably doesn't know that he does it to keep himself held together when he feels like he's seconds away from crumbling to bits. He thinks that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to finally fall apart like that. He's finally look a little like he felt inside- now gaunt and sallow, all sharp edges and shadows and scars and scuff marks on the toes of his converse- none of that is enough. Maybe it never would be.

"I love you, Bill. You know that," Stan says softly and Bill bites the tip of his tongue, trying to keep from speaking too soon. "You know that."

 _'Do I?'_ He wants to ask. 

If Stan had said it like that just a few years before, confident in the way he spoke, Bill would have been able to confirm it without a second of hesitation. Now he's not so sure and the uncertainty of it all is something that constantly plagues him. Stan probably doesn't get it and Bill's grateful for that. Nobody else should ever have to feel like this: isolated from the rest of the world and lonely even in a room full of his favorite people.

That hurt, it's a raw ache in his chest; a cavernous absence. It's gaping like that throat full of razorlike teeth, open and sharp. What's worse is that nothing fills that void anymore, not even the slightest bit. He can go days without eating, something he's started just to put a real, tangible reason behind that constant pain.

Starvingdoesn't hurt like it used to, doesn't help like it should. Even then, he can't find the strength in him that it would take to stop. He's not really hungry anymore. He sometimes gets tunnel vision when he stands up too fast and he has to hold tight to the nearest steady surface and pray he doesn't collapse. There are the bouts of dissociation, the ever-present chill that seems to be bone deep, the brittle nails and shaking hands and the awful ache deep in the pit of his stomach that doesn't hold the same satisfaction as it used to.

There's still a comfort in it though- all of that and the hard, jutting bones of his hips and the hollow outlines of his collarbones. The fact that he finds comfort in something so awful is sickening but he thinks that maybe everything about him is like that now; poisoned after festering for so long in the vacant eyes of his mother and leaden hands of his father and the depths of the Derry sewer system.

"I love you too, Stan," he finds himself whispering, still staring out towards the hazy night sky. The stars are pale freckles of light that twinkle across the expanse of midnight air and the moon hangs in a sliver just across from where he's looking. The faint glow around the crescent is barely visible but it still somehow managed to light up the thin wisps of clouds stretched across it.

He can't help that the writer part of his brain sees it as strangely poetic- something so small can cast such an impressive amount of like in the same way insignificant things can cause so much pain. It reminds him too much of how all of his fears branch off of the same root: his insecurities, his shame, that self-loathing and fear of abandonment. 

He sometimes has the sense to remind himself that the root isn't so small after all, it just feels that way because he's used to carrying the crushing weigh by himself.

There's more he could say. It's selfish but if there's one thing Bill Denbrough knows for sure, it's that he is entirely selfish. What's a little more of that going to hurt? 

"I know you love me. That's the issue here; that I do know. I know how you love me and it's enough. Of course it is. It still hurts though because I just want what everyone else has, and I want that with you. How come everyone else but me can get it? Ben and Beverly, Eddie and Richie. You and Mike."

It would hurt too much to say out loud. He doesn't dare speak it, to solidify it in a verbal acknowledgement. He's never spoken it before, not to anyone. Never wrote it down, never whispered it to himself- just let it replay in his mind in a constant look of _'nobody_ _loves you like you want them to and you have to deal with it. You have to deal with being unwanted because that's how the rest of your life is going to go. You can't blame anyone but yourself for it.'_

Instead of any of that, he says something close to it but altogether different.

"Do you… do you think any of us will die before we get to leave?"

His throat is painfully tight as he mutters those words and he finds it hard to drag in the next few unsteady breaths. He shifts a little, chewing at his lower lip as he brings a thumbnail down to press hard against his left wrist. The marks haven't had time to heal over and he can feel the skin splitting beneath the pressure he's applying. He breathes out a shaky sigh of relief as blood pools around the pad of his thumb and very, very slowly starts to trickle downward. It shouldn't be as comforting as it is. It shouldn't be comforting at all and he knows it. That relief is a sickness and he knows it- he knows all of that. It's nothing he hasn't mulled over for hours at a time.

He thinks that maybe one day he'll be able to wake up from all of this like it's a twisted, cruel nightmare and not a fucked up version of real life. As much as he hates himself he thinks this is something nobody should have to deal with.

Stan hasn't said anything to break the silence and he wants to tear further into his skin. He wants to carve open that fading line for the second time; press his fingers into the folds of skin and rip it open wide and let his blood drain out until he's empty. He'll be a hollow thing and though it wouldn't be much unlike he is now, he'll finally be gone. He wonders what it would be like to stop hurting for good.

"Sorry. I sh-shuh-should… shouldn't be saying things like that," he whispers almost numbly. His mind is starting to get hazy now, thoughts going fuzzy in a way that feels a lot better than having them hammer at him with a painfully vivid thrum. He accepts the dizziness with open arms, grateful that Stan had provided him with such an escape. Smoking had never been his favorite thing because of how out of control it made him feel, but lately that feeling was a welcomed one. It was something he could only get with a joint because last time he'd tried to drink had ended in disaster. He only remembers bits of that evening in blurred snapshots that he can only try to reach for. He sifts through his mind and even now the memories are shrouded with black: flashes of red hair and worried faces, crying on a tile floor with his head resting on someone's lap. He knows he woke up alone in Richie's bathroom and that there was some sort of tension in the air that nobody dared to mention. It was like the rest of them knew something he didn't and were afraid to share it with him. Afraid of what he might do if he knew what they did. 

That night he'd only become that much more aware of how alone and unlovable he was. Nobody would ever spare him a second glance and he got it. He understood. Why would anyone _want_ to look at him? He could hardly stand the sight of himself and he'd had time to grow used to these imperfect features. In the back of his mind he knew that even if those were something that could be fixed, his mind was another thing altogether. He could try to be better until it killed him but he knew that he never would be.

He wasn't sure where the hell that left him. All he could do now is close his eyes and try to keep the silence from consuming him.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry


End file.
